A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

  At first I’d really believed Rob would wake up and realize that he’d sacrificed his home, his family, in fact everything that mattered, just so he could move into Barbie’s Dream House, but he never did. It was sad and still a little hard to believe. I’d always credited him with more sense.

  An irritating recorded message was telling me, over and over, to “Please hang up and dial again.” I pushed my finger against the receiver, closed my eyes, and groaned. I did not want to call Rob. If Garrett hadn’t insisted, if he hadn’t played on the guilt I felt over not telling him and made me promise…But I had promised. There was no getting around it.

  The phone rang several times before Rob (not Tina!) answered. “Hello.”

  “Hi. It’s me.” There was a brief pause. For a moment I wondered if he’d forgotten my name and was about to remind him, but he broke in. His voice was worried.

  “Evelyn? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Garrett?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Everything is fine. Garrett is fine. In fact, he’s here. He flew in to spend Christmas with me.”

  “Oh. That’s nice,” he said, and I imagined I heard a touch of wistfulness in his voice, remembering what Christmas was like when we were all together, but if he was thinking of those happy times, he didn’t say anything. He just waited for me to speak.

  Taking a quick breath, I jumped in, trying to keep everything as matter of fact and to the point as possible. “Listen, Rob, I said everything is fine, but that isn’t quite right. I have breast cancer.”

  “Oh my God!” he gasped. “Evelyn, I’m so—”

  “I first found out a few months ago and had an operation,” I interrupted, plowing on. The last thing I wanted right now was for him to start voicing some guilt-ridden apology or insincere expressions of concern. “They weren’t able to get everything on the first go-round. I’ll be going in for a double mastectomy at the end of January.”

  “A double…Oh my God,” he repeated. “Evie…I just…I can’t believe it. Is there anything I can do?”

  His use of my old nickname annoyed me. “I wouldn’t have bothered you about it, but Garrett wanted me to.”

  “I’m glad you did. Yeah. I…I’m just in shock, I guess. Can I help you with anything? Do you have good insurance? Do you need money?”

  I shook my head. Typical, I thought. Rob always was a quick draw with his wallet. So much easier than actually doing anything that might encroach on his work schedule or, heaven forbid, his emotions.

  “No,” I snapped. “I didn’t call to beg you for money. At the moment, that is the least of my worries.”

  “Hey. Evie, that’s not fair. Don’t be like that. I know you must be upset and worried, and I was just trying to—”

  “You know, Rob, I really don’t care what you were trying to do. Seems like half the conversations in our marriage were you trying to explain your way out of something. I don’t want to hear it anymore. Since we’re not married anymore, I don’t have to. And don’t call me Evie. I didn’t call to ask for your help, or your money, or your sympathy. I did it for Garrett. Our son made me promise to call and tell you that I have cancer. And now I have. There.”

  I banged the receiver down without saying good-night, telling myself it felt good to be able to slam the door in his face for once and wondering if the satisfaction of revenge was supposed to make people cry.

  22

  Abigail Burgess Wynne

  We bid Evelyn and her son, Garrett, good-night and walked out into the darkened courtyard. A gentle fall of snow floated down from the night sky at a leisurely pace, like that soapflake snow they use on holiday television specials. Everyone was quiet. I think we were all still in shock. Charlie was the first to speak, and he was angry.

  “How could she have waited so long to say anything? I know I’m not family, but surely after all these months she has a clue about how I…”

  His voice trailed off, and he left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but it didn’t take any special insight to know what he’d intended to say. For some time, I’d suspected that Charlie’s feelings for Evelyn went beyond friendship. The signs were all there—the lilt in his step as he whistled his way down the street, the special meals he’d made during her recovery, their morning meetings at the coffee shop. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. He’d even taken to complimenting his waiters, a hereto unheard of development. Charlie wasn’t the kind of person who made new friends easily. The life of a restaurateur was much too busy to allow for relationships with people who weren’t also in the business, but somehow or other he found time for Evelyn. It was obvious that he cared about her deeply. In my mind, I finished the question for him: after all these months, how could Evelyn have failed to notice Charlie was in love with her?

  I waited for a moment, thinking that Margot would jump in and say something to comfort poor Charlie (she was good at that sort of thing), but she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

  Awkwardly, I reached over and patted Charlie on the arm. “She has so many worries right now, Charlie. I don’t think she was trying to exclude you from her life. You heard what she said; she didn’t want to worry any of us, especially with the holidays coming.”

  “Well, what difference does that make?” His voice was raised, and I shushed him, concerned that Evelyn might hear him through the windows of her apartment. She was only one floor up from the courtyard. “What difference does it make?” he repeated, whispering but still angry. “I am worried. The number of the day on the calendar doesn’t make me less so.”

  Margot, as always the soul of sensitivity, spoke. “It doesn’t make much sense to me either, but I’ve never had to face what Evelyn is facing right now. None of us has. Who knows how we would react in a similar situation? Maybe she really was trying to be protective of us, or maybe she was just trying to avoid dealing with reality. Who knows?”

  “Well, I can understand her reluctance,” I said. “It’s her private business. Why should she have to share every detail of her personal life with us? After all, it’s not like we’re family.”

  Without saying anything, Liza turned to face me. I heard the heel of her boot crunch down into the snow. In the dim half-light cast by the bulb of a single spotlight in the far corner of the courtyard, I could just make out the expression on her face: a look of intense disgust, bordering on hatred; a look she hadn’t cast in my direction with quite as much vehemence since her early weeks in New Bern. What in the world had I done wrong now?

  “No,” Margot continued, “but she needs us as if we were. I’m glad her son is here now. He seems like a nice man. But Evelyn said he’ll have to go back to Seattle on Monday. Even if he could stay, she’ll still need our support. This is going to be much tougher than the last operation.”

  “It is,” I concurred. “I’ve known several people who’ve been through a mastectomy. It won’t be like before, when she was out of commission for just a few days. We’ll all have to pitch in to help run the shop while she’s recovering. I don’t know much about retail, but if I can help…” Next to me, Liza coughed a few times, interrupting my train of thought.

  Margot looked at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she answered hoarsely. “Getting a cold.”

  “Well,” Charlie growled and pulled his coat collar up, “Evelyn can count on me. She always could. She only had to ask. That’s all I’m saying. It wasn’t fair to leave me…I mean…us in the dark for this long.”

  Margot nodded. “I know, but she wasn’t trying to be hurtful or uncaring.”

  “If anything, it was the opposite,” I interjected. “She didn’t say anything until now because she does care.”

  “That’s right!” Margot beamed, happy to have my support in her efforts to restore Charlie’s spirits. “And after all, she did apologize. That’s why she decided to tell us tonight; because she realized her mistake.”

  “Mmmm. I suppose.” Charlie twisted his lips thoughtfully. “We’re supposed to spend Chr
istmas Day together, Evelyn and I. Do you suppose she’ll still want me to come? I mean, what with Garrett here and all? I was going to make my duck confit, but maybe she’d rather have dinner with just the two of them.”

  “I’m sure she’d have said something if her plans had changed,” I said, and Margot nodded agreement.

  “In that case,” Charlie said, puffing out a big white cloud of breath that seemed to dissipate the last vapors of his anger, “I’d better get back to the restaurant and see to my duck. And my customers. You’d think that people would want to be around hearth and home on Christmas Eve, but the Dillards have decided to throw a party for their friends in my restaurant. Aren’t you one of the guests, Abigail? We’d better get over there. Karen Dillard hates it when people show up late.”

  “I’d almost forgotten about the party. Thank you for the reminder, Charlie. I’ll be over directly.”

  “All right. I’ll see you soon. Good-night, ladies. Merry Christmas.” He waved over his shoulder as he walked down the alley and disappeared around the corner.

  Margot and I responded to his farewell, but Liza said nothing. I could still feel her eyes on me. Her gaze was making me feel very uncomfortable, which was exactly her intention, but I didn’t look at her. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “I guess I should be going too,” Margot said. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Are you still going to go to your sister’s in Buffalo for Christmas? Maybe you should cancel and have dinner with us instead,” I said hopefully. At the moment, the prospect of spending Christmas alone with Liza was far from appealing. She was obviously in one of her moods. Thank heaven I already had plans for the evening, but tomorrow it would be just the two of us. Margot would be the perfect buffer. I had hoped Franklin might join us, but he was going into Manhattan to spend Christmas with his daughters.

  “I hate to think of you driving all that way in this terrible weather.”

  Margot laughed her musical giggle, looked up at the lazily drifting snowflakes, and held her arms out wide. “You mean this little flurry? Abigail, I thought you were a native New Englander. You can’t think a little snow is going to keep me from getting where I need to go.”

  “No,” I fumbled. “I suppose not, but you never can tell. They get terrible storms around Buffalo this time of year.”

  “Believe me, I know all about it. I grew up there,” she said. “I’ll be fine, but you’re sweet to worry about me. I’d love an excuse to spend the holidays with you and Liza, but if I don’t show up, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’d be one more thing for my sister to resent about me,” she sighed.

  “You don’t get along with your sister?” Liza asked, clearly surprised. Margot shook her head. “Why not? I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

  Margot smiled. “That’s sweet of you to say, Liza, but nobody gets along with everyone. And it really isn’t that we don’t get along, it’s just that…Well, I don’t know what it is, really. It just seems like my sister has never approved of anything about me. Not since we were kids. Still, she’s my sister, and I love her.” Margot shrugged. “I might not always like her, but I love her. That’s just the way it works in families.”

  Liza paused a moment before responding. “So I’ve heard,” she said flatly. “But I really wouldn’t know. Not from personal experience.”

  She shot me a final cold stare before turning on her heel and walking away. Her shoulders were hunched as she tramped angrily down the alley. She was trying to make a dramatic exit, but the snow muffled the intended intensity of her stomped footsteps, turning what should have been a drumbeat of departure into a soft “flumph, flumph” of waffled rubber treading on snowflakes. Still, the message came through loud and clear. The sound of her steps grew fainter as she moved farther off; they were an accusation just the same. Reluctantly, I said good-night to Margot, wished her a Merry Christmas, and followed Liza.

  At the end of the alley, Liza crossed the street in the direction of the house without speaking to me, still stomping her disapproval. When I exited the alley, I paused on the sidewalk for a moment, considering my options. Perhaps I should go after her, follow her to the house, and try to get her to tell me what was bothering her so we could clear the air and enjoy a nice Christmas together.

  It had been years since I’d spent Christmas with family. Not since Woolley died. Of course, I always had my pick of invitations to Christmas dinner. Sometimes I accepted, but more often than not I just stayed home. It was always such a bother—having to buy gifts for a crowd of people you really didn’t know and fussing over what to wear. It always felt so much more like putting on a costume to perform your part in a play about Christmas than partaking of the actual celebration. Christmas should be about walking to church in the snow, attending midnight services with the sanctuary bathed in candlelight, waking up early the next morning and going downstairs in your robe to open gifts from and to people you care about, wandering in and out of the kitchen trying to steal a bite of whatever it was that smelled so delicious, then playing board games in front of the fire, or singing around the piano, or doing whatever you wanted to do until dinner was ready and everyone sat down together to bless the food, talking and laughing and eating too much, tucked up warm and safe together while the snow drifted past the window and the shadows of evening began to fall.

  That’s what Christmas should be, I thought bitterly, but somehow it never has been. Not even when Woolley was alive. Not since I was a girl, spending Christmas with Mother, and Father, and Susan….

  A sudden gust of wind blew down the street, whipping the snow into a furious cloud that stung my face and made me close my eyes against the pain. Liza marched across the Green toward the house.

  I shivered, looked at my watch, then took a left turn and hurried down the street in the direction of the restaurant.

  Karen Dillard hated for her guests to arrive late.

  23

  Evelyn Dixon

  Though Garrett’s arrival was a surprise, I managed to pull together some semblance of a family Christmas. Of course, it helped that I owned a quilt shop. Downstairs I found two samples from the “Crazy Quilted Christmas Stocking” class to hang by our hearth. We took turns playing Santa and filled them with gifts.

  Our offerings were improvised but very creative. The next morning, we laughed as we sat on the floor next to the tree and emptied our stockings.

  I’d scoured the apartment for gifts and found an orange, a pack of chewing gum, a box of matches from the Grill, some soap and a plastic-wrapped toothbrush they’d given me at the hospital, and a mostly unused book of crossword puzzles that Margot had given me during my recovery. The rest of the presents came from the shop. After I added a spool of thread, a package of needles, another of safety pins, an official pink “Cobbled Court Quilts” tape measure, and a pair of embroidery scissors, the stocking fairly bulged with bounty.

  “Mom,” Garrett grinned as he held up the measuring tape by one end, letting it dangle from his fingers like some sort of pink and black striped snake, “I know you always hoped I’d be a girl, but get over it already, will you? I’m never going to take up quilting.”

  “Very funny. I just thought it would be nice for you to have some kind of sewing kit. You probably have a closet full of shirts with loose buttons that need repairing.”

  Garrett nodded. “Actually, I do. I brought them all with me in my suitcase. Along with my dirty laundry. Thought you wouldn’t mind taking care of that for me.”

  “Not a chance, darling. But I’ll be more than happy to teach you how to thread a needle.”

  “Hmmm. Somehow I thought you’d say that. Well, it was worth a try.”

  He leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thanks for the presents, Mom. They’re just what I needed. Now go on. Open yours.”

  Garrett seemed to have done his shopping at the Seattle airport and en route to Hartford. In addition to a pound of coffee beans and a mug, a Seattle Mariners baseball cap, a
nd a tiny Seattle ferry tree ornament, I received a package of pretzels, a pair of plastic headphones, an eye mask, and a thin blue blanket still sealed in a plastic bag, all from the same airline.

  By the time I finished going through the stocking, I was laughing so hard there were tears in my eyes. “What did you do? Make friends with the flight attendants or just wait until their backs were turned and steal this stuff?”

  “Oh, very nice,” Garrett said with mock indignation. “Here I go to all the trouble of getting you some presents, and you accuse me of theft. Listen, this took some doing. This isn’t the cheap junk they gave me and the other poor saps riding back in steerage. This Christmas stocking is First Class. Of course I made friends with the flight attendants! I had to! Back where I was riding, they don’t even give you pretzels. Getting all this took a lot of sweet-talking on my part.”

  He stretched his arms out wide as though yawning and then flexed them in a bodybuilder pose. “Of course,” he said in his best “surfer dude” impression, the one he’d perfected in high school, “I always have been lucky with the ladies. One look at these guns, and they’re putty in my hands.”

  “That right? Last I heard you were still dateless in Seattle. Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked hopefully. It worried me that Garrett never seemed to have any dates, let alone a steady girlfriend. He was a good-looking young man and so much fun to be with. In college he’d gone out with a number of very nice girls.

  “Nope. Sorry, Mom. No news to report on the girlfriend front. I don’t have time to look for one; I’m working seventy-plus hours a week. By the time the weekend comes, and by weekend I mean Saturday after dark, I’m too exhausted to go out. I just go home and sleep until it’s time to go to work on Monday.”